


Four Years Gone

by Ladderofyears



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Auror Harry Potter, Bank Robber Draco Malfoy, Bank Robbery, Bisexual Harry Potter, Character Returns From The Dead, Extreme Flying, M/M, Obsession, Oral Sex, Relationship breakdown, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-02-27 18:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18744205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladderofyears/pseuds/Ladderofyears
Summary: Four years ago Harry Potter let Draco Malfoy fly away in a snow storm that no flyer could possibly have survived, and ever since that day his life has been on hold. Then, one day he receives a photograph of a Mountain Range. The Pir Panjal mountain range, in India.Draco is alive. Will Harry chase him, and give up everything he cares about?





	Four Years Gone

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the lovely Mods who gave me an extension for this work, and have worked tirelessly and kindly to make this a wonderful fest. 
> 
> I adore the film Point Break, and I've watched it on and off ever since I was eleven. Bodhi and Utah were my first proper ship, and some of the dialogue in this story are taken from this wonderful 1991 film. if you haven't seen it, I urge you to watch it. 
> 
> I don't own the characters from Point Break, or Harry Potter, and I am not profiting from them in anyway. I hope you enjoy my re-imagining of this tale of bank robberies, extreme flying and some lost (and found) love.

It's a grey April day when the owl arrives, late in the month, but still no sight of the summer to come, and the cold - dull and leaden - seems to seep into Harry’s bones. Harry can’t manage to get Grimmauld warm, no matter how many warming spells he attempts, and is just about to shrug on a jumper when he hears the familiar sound of a letter arriving at his window.

The bird isn’t one of the long-familiar creatures that pester him regularly from the Ministry, and nor is it Juniper, Hermione’s Tawny Owl. Her messages come very rarely now. While Harry misses her friendship, and her quick wit, the simmering anger lining her features was too much for either him or Ginny to bear.

Harry frowns at the cold air that accompanies the animal as he opens the window for it to enter. It's a big beast, a Great Grey of a size that rarely finds it's way to British shores. The bird has obviously flown a long way too; his feathers are matted, and he falls onto the treats that Harry has laid out as if it were famished. 

The envelope the owl carried is a thick, opulent parchment that bears no return address. _Grimmauld Place, London_ is scripted in neat capital letters that give no clue to the sender, but it's the wax seal that makes Harry’s heart miss a beat though; makes the goose-bumps rise on his forearms and makes his fingertips tremble. _Santimonia Vincet Semper_ , and a stylised _M_ cut deeply into the maroon wax. 

“Malfoy,” Harry says aloud to the empty room. “You absolute bastard.”

And Harry knows implicitly that this is Draco’s work. Malfoy is alive, and he’s made contact, four years after his supposed death. This is a dare, a challenge. A _game_. The bastard is willing Harry to chase after him. 

A lesser Auror might think that the message is the work of a copycat or a crank, but Harry doesn’t have one moment's doubt. He has always had this _intuition_ when it came to Malfoy, a sixth sense about the bastard whether he wanted it or not. Harry can remember being a child; following Draco’s name on the Map, heartbeat thrumming in his throat, the sick thrill of obsession just burning though his veins. 

He can remember following him into the bathroom; remember the tears that had coursed down Draco’s face, and the garish, green flash of magic when he’d cast _Sectumsempra_ only seconds later. And he can remember the blood, tendrils spreading through the water, remember Draco’s eyes shuttering closed. 

Harry shakes his head, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge the memories. It does him no good to dwell on the past, linger over his memories of The Boy who Lived. He might have been the Wizarding World’s golden boy once upon a time, but the vitriolic headlines in the _Daily-bloody-Prophet_ have put pay to any lingering love that the public might have ever held for him. Harry knows he’s still feared; awed even. But not loved. _Not any more_. 

The clusterfuck that was his unauthorised investigation into the Ex-Ministers put pay to any lingering affection the public might have held for Harry. The wand fight in Gringotts where an Auror was killed by an _Unforgivable_. The fiasco in the Swiss Mountains where Harry _could_ have taken Draco in, but chose instead to let him go. Stories like these were like Galleons to the _Prophet_ , and everything he’d done as a schoolboy hero was oh-so conveniently forgotten. 

Every wizard in the UK already knew his name, but when the headlines indelibly tied him to his childhood rival Draco Malfoy: _Ex- Death Eater. Bank Robber_ , Harry Potter became burned into the public's consciousness for every wrong reason. The public couldn’t forgive him, and it's not like Harry could ever forgive himself. 

_“My whole life has been about this moment, Harry.” “Just let me go out there. One more flight before you take me.”_ Malfoy’s last words fly around his consciousness like a demented snitch. 

And now Draco’s alive once more. _Alive_ , and daring Harry to come and find him. 

////

Harry tears open the envelope. 

The parchment is heavy, awkward in his hands, and he can’t seem to make his fingers do what his mind is telling him. Too much Firewhisky, too many late nights mean that Harry is laughably out of shape, soft fat gripping his middle and his skin is grey and sallow. A hot trickle of shame runs down his spine when he thinks about Ron, and how he’d let his best-friend down so badly. They’d both worked so hard to pass their Auror training. Their bodies and minds had been powerful, and their magic even more so. Ron, who refuses Harry's owls now, and who hasn't spoken to Harry in four years.

Finally, the envelope gives up it’s secret: a Muggle photograph, white-topped mountains stood noble before a pale evening sun. The Pir Panjal mountain range. Draco’s alive, and he’s in India. 

“Spill.” Harry is pulled from his revelry by Ginny, who strides into the room, her face questioning. 

She nods in the direction of the Great Grey still sat in their kitchen. When Harry doesn't answer, she spells the kettle to boil, setting out two cups, and pulls on the jumper that Harry abandoned only moments before. And Merlin, she looks glorious today. Her red hair is piled up in a messy knot and her body is toned and muscular from the constant, rigorous Quidditch practice. If he were any sort of man, Harry would seize her now, subdue her with soft kisses and forget forever about the envelope. But Harry’s no sort of man, not any more. He doesn’t speak, because somehow he can’t manage to form the words, but Ginny picks up the photograph anyway, turning it over twice in her hands. 

The owl scrapes at the window, and Harry releases it: no point in a tracking spell. Draco was always meticulous about hiding, and that won’t have changed. Ginny stands to make them both tea, the hiss of the water as it pours into the cups the single sound in the room. They’ve been together forever, he and Gin, and Harry knows her body language better than his own. 

Harry recognises the stern way she’s holding herself, her body so very tense. She's not allowing any muscle to betray weakness. Ginny is trying not to cry, and Harry isn’t enough of a man to comfort her. 

“Harry, _please_ ,” she asks, finally. “Not him. _Don’t_ do this to us. Please. Not again.”

////

Harry sidles to his desk at the Ministry late the following morning. He’s never been the most punctual of men, but in recent months he seems to have found it increasingly hard to care about his job. He prefers to start later, avoiding the stares and whispers that follow him whenever he’s out in public, and to hide away behind his desk. 

Harry knows his co-workers think he’s an arsehole, but he can’t bring himself to care very much. He eyes the stack of Magical Business Licences that he has to double check, and then send out with complete contempt, taking a large mouthful of the Draught of Living Death that supposedly passes for coffee, and settles down to work. This is Harry’s life now: a mid-level, mid-pay Ministry office worker. 

And Harry _knows_ he should be grateful, _knows_ he should be happy. 

Even after everything that happened, Hermione still loved him enough to give him a job. She wanted to keep Harry safe from the demons that crawled though his head; all those memories that wouldn’t stay bidden. But, of course, Harry wasn’t about to pretend that Hermione was _just_ being magnanimous with her offer when she’d pinned him to this desk in the MBL Department. As he twists the photograph obsessively though his fingers, Harry can still remember her flushed, angry face, and the barely concealed rage that had thrummed through her body four years previously. 

That was the day Harry had let Draco Malfoy fly away. Left him to his destiny at the top of the Dufourspitze Mountain Peak. This cold was a killer; the worst mountain storm in fifty years. Disorientation was a given, the ferocity of the wind was blinding him even as he stood still. The day after that last botched Ex-Ministers raid. The day the robbers had taken too long, got careless and greedy, and an Auror was killed. _“You know there’s no way I can handle a cage, Harry.”_

Harry had let Malfoy fly away, and thrown away his life, his pride and his career in the very same second. He’d cast his Auror insignia into the whirling storm of screaming white snow and ice, the wind carrying away his rage faster than he could speak. 

Even in the few moments Draco and he had been together, Harry had felt his blood cooling, felt his skin start to freeze. Hypothermia wasn’t far off; he could feel the cold sinking into his very core. 

_“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Harry”._

And Harry had let Draco go, let him fly into the eye of the storm, and he’d lost a part of himself in the process. 

And Hermione had sat in his hotel room, when Harry had returned hours later, half-drunk, frozen and devastated, his pride demolished and reputation in shatters. The Deputy Minister of Magic wasn’t supposed to be in Switzerland, wasn’t supposed to travel incognito, but this matter, she said, _warranted her own personal attention_. 

“Harry, if you have any respect for me… For Ron, or even yourself,” she’d stated quietly, waving her hand so he didn’t even attempt to speak, “then you’ll listen. We’re not at school now. People have died, and you can’t just walk away from this, Harry. The public won’t understand how you- their bloody _Saviour!_ \- couldn’t bring Malfoy in.” 

She paused, and for a moment Harry could see the pink lines around her eyes, how the defeat had settled on her shoulders. Harry could see how torn she was by this decision. Protecting Harry went against every core value she stood for. 

“The _Prophet_ isn’t going to forgive you, Harry, and I’m struggling to. You’re going to work quietly in the Ministry, because otherwise it’ll look like an admission of something. You can go to St. Mungo's, see the Healers. Get some bloody _counselling_ or something.” Hermione wrung her hands, seemingly unable to meet his eyes for the first time in her life. “Because Harry… You’re a liability. I still love you, but _this_. Letting Draco go… It's too much. We've got a dead Auror, and now a dead suspect. Nobody could have flown in this storm, Harry. You didn’t just let him go. You let Malfoy fly to his death.” 

And it's for Hermione that Harry still returns to this desk each morning, his twisted sense of pride keeping him tied to the desk, tied to the pile of MBLs that never seem to lessen. 

This is his penance, and he’ll sit here forever if he needs too. 

////

_“Mrs. Delacey? Good afternoon! This is Mr. Potter from the Magical Business Licencing Department? You’ve applied for a permit to open a menagerie for Magical Creatures in the Bridgford area of Nottingham? Is that correct? I’ve just got a form I need to complete with you… Is now a good time to talk? No? Okay… Can I book a slot tomorrow?-”_

Harry’s morning drags onwards, glued together only with coffee, and his obsessive ruminations on Malfoy. Always the least communicative in his office, today Harry practically growls at his co-workers. 

He can’t abide talking to the public either; his face- his _scar_ \- flickering through a fire-call is enough to turn most of them into stuttering imbeciles. The majority of his clientele can’t get off the line fast enough. 

Today, however, that's a result that suits him just fine. Today, all Harry wants is to stare at this photograph of the Pir Panjal Mountain Range, and just _think_ about Draco Malfoy. 

The best Extreme Flyer of his generation, Draco had emerged from the ashes of the War with a father in Azkaban, a mother whose grip on sanity was questionable, and a fortune taken by the Ministry in reparations. There was no one better on a broom, and if he had chosen to play Quidditch, Draco could have been one of the top-five players in the world. But he wouldn’t sign on the dotted line; couldn’t commit to their training regimes or team regulations. 

Instead, he’d pushed himself to fly in the most extreme of circumstances; through typhoons, high winds and tornados. Draco had flown in blizzards and endured days in the Sahara or sub-zero temperatures in Alaska. No one had known what to make of Malfoy, or been able to understand what drove him to such feats of risk and daring. 

Ron and Harry, then still in Auror training, had laughed at the way the newspapers had fawned over him; Ron was aghast, wondering aloud to anyone who’d listen: _why, precisely does everybody seem to fancy the bloody ferret, now?_ Ron just couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see the attraction, the sheer captivation that Malfoy now seemed to generate. Ron had rolled his eyes, spelled the newspaper article about the _Prophet_ pin-up into a tightly screwed ball and hurtled it straight into a bin. 

But Harry had understood the fascination. When he was sure Ron, and the rest of the recruits had gone home, he’d retrieved it, spreading the creases wide open beneath his fingertips. Malfoy was pictured; his blond hair longer now, face screwed into a scowl as he launched his broomstick into the sky. _Still the same arrogant arsehole as always_ , Harry decided, as he hid the picture in the bottom of his locker, reasoning that he still just didn’t trust him. 

And now, so many years later, Harry thinks that perhaps he was right.

He’d considered the possibility that Draco had survived the Dufourspitze Storm, because if anyone could have somehow survived, it would have been him. And maybe, perhaps, Harry had even hoped he’d managed it. 

Hoped he'd disappeared. Moved abroad. Gone to live a new life amongst the Muggles. Sitting at his desk in the MBL these few years has given Harry plenty of head-space to imagine seeing Draco again; plenty of time to fantasise about seeing a flash of that white-blond hair while he travels on the Tube, or spying those sharp features in the background of some Muggle travel magazine. But Harry has never truly _known_ he was out there. 

Actually _knowing_ feels very different, and Harry can feel his heart waking up, racing like it hasn’t managed in four years. His brain is firing, and the old, familiar discomfort is settling into his bones. For as long as he can remember, this obsession with Malfoy has mired him; been his first thought when he woke, and his last before he slept. As long as he could look to the skies and know that somewhere beneath them Draco breathed, existed, he’d been obsessed, and it was only with his so-called death that Harry had felt any peace. 

And now Harry knows that Malfoy lives; that he’s out there, _somewhere_ , waiting for Harry, his obsession has roared into life. It's filling his brain, and taking over every conscious thought. This time, Harry decides, he isn’t going to let Draco fly away. 

////

The Ex-Ministers bank robberies were the first case that Harry and Ron had worked together as Auror partners. Harry knew he’d only got such a good case on the back of his reputation, his fame, but really he didn’t truly care. 

All Harry had wanted was to smash the case wide open, and get the perpetrators behind bars in Azkaban. The need to prove himself had burned like acid in his gut. He wanted, needed, to show them he belonged on the team. That he was more than a scar and a lucky bloody _Expelliarmus_. 

Five wizards, each of whom transfigured their faces, the Ex-Ministers had turned over Gringotts, and seven other wizarding establishments all over the continent. Their modus operandi had never differed. They were quick; in and out in under a minute, and they never, ever got greedy. _Solid professionals. They never go for the vaults_ , Ron had commented. _You burn time in the vaults_. 

Watching memories of the robberies in the departmental Pensieve, Harry had been struck by the way the Robbers controlled the room. They were a _team_ ; everyone knew their roles. Very little talking. The Auror Office had made the Ex-Ministers their top priority. So far, nobody had gotten hurt. There’d been no hexes thrown, and the sums taken had been relatively small. But it was an embarrassment that these criminals were still at large, and even Hermione had confessed how desperate they’d become for a break in the case. 

Ron and he had been sitting in the flat that Ron shared with Hermione, roles of parchment about the case littering the table. Hermione had left them to get an early night. Recently promoted to Deputy, her workload was punishing, and she was flagging a little under the pressure. Neither Ron nor he had felt like they were making any headway with the case; none of the typical motives for robbery ever seemed to apply to the Ex-Ministers. 

“It's not Death Eater related. Not a protest either,” Ron had said, frowning at the latest images of the robbers. “They’re not looking to make their fortune. They only take what’s in the cash drawers. I don’t bloody know. They go in. Come out. It's like they’re bloody _ghosts_ -”

“Not ghosts,” Harry had replied, slamming his drink down with more force than he realised, the sticky butterbeer foaming over the rim. “The Ex-Ministers. I've worked it out. They’re extreme flyers.” 

“ _Extreme flyers?_ You mean those arseholes the _Prophet_ are always banging on about? Doubtful. Bunch of tossers living off daddy’s vault.” Ron didn’t seem impressed with the idea, but Harry was warming up to his new pet theory. 

“Extreme flyers, Ron. It's been staring us in the face this whole time.” He snatched the photo out of Ron’s hands, and pointed his forefinger at it. “Look at them. All of them completely skinny, but their legs and thighs are so bloody muscular. _Flyers_. And last year… The tall one with the long hair? Scuffed his shoe when he was climbing over the counter. So we had a sample to test. What did the potions lab tell us? _Cedar Wax_. Come on, Ron, remember Hogwarts? Flyers use it. The best flyers used to rub it on their brooms for traction, before Quidditch games.”

“Okay, Harry. You’ve got my attention. But if we take this to Robards, we’re going to get laughed out of his office. It's just a hunch. These flyers. It's all about the experience for them. What was that arsehole Malfoy saying in the _Prophet_ the other day? _Flying is a state of mind? Flying is where you lose yourself and find yourself?_ Why would they be robbing banks?”

Harry felt his mind calm and his head clear. The final piece of the puzzle had fallen into place with Ron’s words. He was certain about the Ex-Ministers, and even more certain about how he was was going to solve these robberies. 

“For the _rush_ , Ron. It's not about the money. It's about the bloody adrenaline; about pushing themselves further and faster. Look at the dates, mate,” he declared, grabbing another piece of parchment from the pile, scanning it impatiently. “The French wizarding district got their bank turned over the same week as Malfoy and his team were participating in the Pyrenees Twenty-Four Hour. The Tunisia job happened around the same time as the Sahara Endurance Trials. It _can’t_ just be a coincidence.”

“Mate, if it _is_ like you think -extreme flyers, bloody _Malfoy_ \- you do realise there’s no way on Merlin’s Green Earth that they’ll actually let you investigate this? For what it's worth, I think you’ve made a good case. But you’re not going to see any of it, not if we take it to Robards. You’ll be pulled off the investigation before you get your wand out of it's bloody holster. You and Draco. Too much history. You’re already way too close to him. He’s saved your life; you’ve saved his-”

“Ancient bloody history, Ron!” Harry spat out, angry that Ron had decided to bring up the past, their gnarled knot of history that bound the two men together. Hogwarts, the War, and the Trials afterwards. None of these had any baring on the Ex-Ministers, and Ron was out of line even commenting. “This isn’t personal. If he’s committing these robberies then we’re going to bring him in, end of story. Perhaps Robards doesn’t need to know everything we’re up to, then. Maybe I’ll do a little investigating in my own time”

“You can’t see it, Harry,” said Ron carefully, as if he were considering exactly which words to use, “but your thinking's messed up when it comes to Draco. What is it, mate? It's as if Malfoy’s able to claw out this impulsive, impetuous Harry that none of us recognise. Or maybe you’re just half in love with him.”

////

Thinking back on it now, Harry realises that Ron had been eerily prescient about him and Malfoy. Just what was it about Draco? Even as a boy Malfoy had dominated his thoughts, swallowed his energy and time in a way that no other person had ever managed. Draco had been so omnipresent, for so many years that this fixation was like a callous on his heart; a part of who he was. Take Malfoy away, and some core part of Harry eroded and died as well. 

And while they’d both been schoolboys the answer had always been so easy. Malfoy was his bully, his enemy. Harry needed to be obsessed to keep on top of the threat. And later, after the Dark Mark and Dumbledore, Harry had felt vindicated really. The truth was though, Harry was preoccupied with Draco because the other man saw him differently to other people. Draco had never once cared about the scar; about his surviving the _Avada Kadavra_ or the hero Harry was supposed to be. Draco just saw him. 

Saw the person beneath the myth. Draco never let Harry glide through his life on his reputation, or his one lucky _Expelliarmus_. Draco was challenging, and provocative and so bloody tough. That was why Harry always went back for more. 

It was against Ron’s better judgement, but he finally agreed to give Harry two months. 

Two months for Harry to infiltrate the extreme flying circuit, get to know some of the big names and see if he could possibly find out any insider information about the activities of the Ex-Ministers. 

////

Draco was wary at first, his face settling into the familiar glower Harry remembered from school. Harry had arrived, unannounced at Draco’s home, his broom in hand. 

“Kindly piss off, Potter.” Draco had said coolly, refusing to shake the hand that Harry had proffered. “If you’ve come for a thank-you for speaking at my trial, then you’ll be waiting the rest of your life. Maybe it's beyond your wit and reasoning, but I didn’t come out of those trials so well… It’s just me now. No money, no Manor. Father is in Azkaban and Mother is in St. Mungos.”

“I’m not here for your words, Malfoy.” Harry had replied, banking on Draco’s arrogance. “I want you to teach me to fly. _Nobody_ but you. The _Prophet_ says you’re the best in the world.”

Draco rolled his eyes, an action that looked mildly absurd on a twenty year old man, and turned his body to allow Harry the space to enter his flat. Harry looked back at Draco, who had narrowed his eyes, motioning casually with his hands for Harry to move forward. He’d guessed correctly. The arrogant bloody git just couldn’t resist the praise. 

“Me teach you? You’re an adequate flier, as I recall. Good enough for Quidditch.” Draco spat the last word out like it tasted unpleasant. He looked Harry up and down, taking in the fact he’d sat down in without being asked, and sighed, sitting down across from him. 

“No need to ask, Potter. Make yourself at home. Still, no parents to bring you up, so I suppose no one ever taught you any _actual_ manners. So why does the Ministry's Golden Boy want to learn to fly? Isn’t catching Dark Wizards doing it for you any more? In need of an extra thrill?”

“Malfoy,” Harry began, his voice uncertain. He was more nervous than he was letting on, his mind shuttered by the Occlumency required as an Auror. “You don’t seem to understand. _I’m going to learn to fly like you- or break my neck trying_ … Because all my life I’ve done things for other people. Played Quidditch because my House expected me too. Everybody always imagined I’d become an Auror, so I did that for other people too… I wanted something for myself. I want to do what you do. I’m drawn to it, or something.” 

Inside his chest, Harry’s heart was thrumming, his skin a mass of goose-pimples. Even as he’d said the words, he’d recognised the elemental truth of them. This was only supposed to be a ruse; a manoeuvre to get the blond bastard on side. Draco had every right to laugh in Harry’s face, and show him the door. 

But sat there, dry-mouthed, Harry had recognised how much he wanted Draco to say _yes._

“Ugh. _All right_. Seven o’clock tomorrow. I’ll teach you a few things, and after that you’re on your own. I’m not taking you on to raise. You agree to do exactly what I say when I say it? And if you’re one minute late, I’m gone.”

“Draco, thanks. I-” Harry had started, but Malfoy shut him up with the foulest glare imaginable, rising pointedly from his chair. Their meeting was over. 

“No. Just don’t say it, Potter. Not that… It's not like I’ve got a choice, is it? Our bloody _Saviour_ comes knocking, so your wish is my command. You saved me, I get it. I owe you. But after this, we’re quits, and I never have to see you again. I only hope you don’t break your bloody neck.” 

////

Seven o’clock the following day and Harry had met Draco’s eyes over the handles of their brooms. Harry felt truly alive for the first time since the end of the War, as if he’d woken from a long slumber. 

Draco was a brute in the sky, a taskmaster that would have put any in the Auror Training Academy to shame. Without a word they took off into the sky, their bodies perfectly in unison. Draco never pretended at either courtesy or sportsmanship. _It’s not the fucking House Cup, you arse!_ he had hissed, their training transforming into a heart-racing, blood-pounding, adrenalin-rush of a duel. Draco pushed Harry further than he’d ever experienced before; swooping them both high into the air, and diving so low that their knees nearly brushed the long grass. 

And whenever Harry tried to shake Draco off, he matched every loop, and curve, feint and roll with an unhinged, demented glint in his eyes. 

Harry had trouble catching his breath as Draco sped through the trees, his pace dizzying and demonic. Anything that Harry tried, Draco anticipated, and he was never more than a metre behind him. They weaved over each other, elbowing and shoving each other shamelessly. Draco’s flying was chaotic, and terrifying; fearless and bold. Truly, this Draco was a different person to the standoffish, emotionally-stunted person that Harry remembered from school; his broom seemed to become a part of him, and Harry felt privileged to witness how unashamedly joyful Draco finds flying.

“You’ve got it, Potter.” Draco had gasped, laughing when they finally stopped. “You _understand_. You understand the air… Understand how you become part of the very current itself. The spiritual side of it. You don’t know it yet, but you’ve got it… You were like a dragon up there. Relentless. You didn’t back down. That’s very rare in this world.

And Harry had never seen Draco like this. Never seen him smile so artlessly or so innocently. Harry wanted to reply, wanted to tell Draco he was _made to fly like this_ , wanted to tell him that _he’d never felt so alive since he was seventeen_. But Harry doesn’t quite dare. 

“You’re not going to start chanting, are you, Draco? The spiritual side? Really?”

“You never know, Potter. I just might.”

////

Harry remembered the first time that Malfoy had turned up at Grimmuld, alone. He'd marched through Harry's Floo and woken him at some ungodly hour of the morning. 

Malfoy’s face had held it's usual grimace of distaste when he'd looked around the lounge, but then he’d given Harry one of his rare, genuine grins when he clapped eyes on the Thunderbolt Five, lent so casually against the wall. “Nice piece of kit just stood there, Potter. You going to sleep away the whole rest of the day, or are you going to let me waste your Gryffindor arse this fine morning?”

Dawn had only just broken as they made their descent over the Cairngorms, the sky changing from charcoal black to a soft dove grey. The Scottish air was biting, and Harry had felt revitalised. He'd felt absolutely ready to take Draco up on any challenge that he might have proposed. 

The skyline was vast, and utterly empty of any other flyers beside themselves. Neither he or Draco had noticed as the rain had started to fall, the drops steady and soft in the white morning light. Never one to step away from a dare, Harry couldn't help but try to pull off the ever more rash and foolhardy manoeuvre that Draco dared him to try. He swooped speedily down towards the ground, only pulling his broom back with mere seconds to spare. 

Flying with Draco felt like a game of bloody _chicken._ Harry imagined every loop, twist and swerve brought him closer to disaster, but the pounding of his heart; the thrumming of blood through his veins. _They_ both felt more real to Harry than anything else he could remember since he was seventeen, and it was dangerously intoxicating. The two of them carried on their games until Harry realised his broom was suddenly too slick to clasp. Both of them were ricocheting dangerously, and laughing far too hard to pay any real attention to what they were doing. 

Calling it quits, the two of them had abandoned their practice and dived into a shallow cave, narrowly avoiding the rain that was now falling in sheets around them. Drying and warming spells had made them comfortable, and they’d sat, silent, staring at the stripes of pale pink chasing the grey clouds across the horizon. 

And Harry had _known_ , known even then, as he sat beside Draco, that he’d crossed a line. The quiet sense of peace; the feeling of finally being true to oneself. The sense of belonging. None of these had any place on an undercover Auror mission. 

“ _This_ ,” Draco had said, in a quiet, contemplative voice, both hands cast wide to show the majestic visage in front of their eyes, “this is why I fly, Potter. Flying is the ultimate freedom… It’s limitless, immeasurable. Extreme flying... There’s no room to back down. No room to second guess yourself. The ultimate rush. _If you want the ultimate, you’ve got to be willing to pay the ultimate price. It's not tragic to die doing what you love_.”

Harry hadn't spoken, and hadn't even moved a muscle. Who was this Draco; this wizard who seemed able to break open his defences with a few well crafted sentences? The leader of a criminal gang, a bank robber financing his flying with a reign of terror, or a mesmeric guru, a voice of wisdom? Or perhaps, they were just two side of the same Galleon, Malfoy and himself. Two scarred, broken young men, looking for solace in their unforgiving world?

“That’s how you must have felt before… That rush, that _invincibility_. Taking down the Dark Lord. Fulfilling the Prophecy. Everybody’s hero. And my hero too, I suppose.” Draco had squinted a sideways glance in his direction, a smile playing around the edge of his lips. “You saved my life, Potter. And I know I said this wasn’t about a thank-you, but...” 

Draco’s words had drifted off to nothing, but their silence never once felt uncomfortable. Harry refreshed their warming spells, his mind awash with the familiar feelings of impotent humility and abashment that always flooded his brain whenever he reminisced about the War. 

“And tell me one more thing, Harry. What was it like for you afterwards? After you became our Saviour? The best of us all?”

Harry had felt Draco’s eyes on him while he spoke, had felt Draco waiting patiently for his answer. And Harry knew he should just have given his well rehearsed lines; given the acceptable lies that their world loved to hear. Tell Draco _how great an accolade it had been to be accepted onto the Auror Program without question_ ; about his _First Class Order of Merlin_ , and the new wing of Hogwarts named in his _honour_.

“Okay,” he mumbled instead, suddenly utterly unable to make the words convincing. Instead, a litany of images flittered through his brain, his memories suddenly a Pensive for all the moments he dearly wished he could forget. 

Harry remembered the frowning face of Shacklebolt after he’d begged not to participate in any more fawning ceremonies. Remembered the anxiousness that had coiled thought his gut every time he’d walked down Diagon Alley, and the endless people that felt he owed them his words, and his time. The people who turned suddenly aggressive and vicious when he wasn’t quite the poster boy the _Prophet_ promised. Remembered how even his closest friends still kept him at arms length, not _quite_ able to look him in the eye any more.

And Harry remembered the flashbacks, the nightmares and way that the faces of the dead always seemed to flicker at the very edges of his vision. 

“The thing is, Harry-” whispered Draco, leaning in so that his breath was hot in Harry's ear, and the frenetic energy of the man radiated from his skin, “I think we’re the same, you and I. Our world made _plans_ for us; decided the routes of our lives and the men we would be. You were our hero, our Saviour... What's that nickname, the thing the papers call you and your mates? _The Golden bloody Trio?_ But you and I both know, don’t we, that you’re not truly that person inside. I don’t believe, Harry, that you’ve ever once tired to be your own person-”

Draco paused suddenly, his grey eyes narrow as he took in every part of Harry, wanting to see if his words had hit home. Harry had willed his face to show nothing, even as his stomach twisted into knots. He recalled, then, being eleven; gazing into the Mirror of Erised, and viewing the deepest, most desperate desire of his heart. Any words that Harry could have locked tightly in his throat and he felt the sensation of the whole world falling away. Draco could see him, witness his most secret truth. 

And Draco must have seen something he liked, for he began speaking once more. 

“-A person who isn’t shackled to the petty duties and obligations the rest of the world places on him… I was you, Harry. The Malfoy heir… Born and bred to take over the Manor; the name and the fortune. Told repeated to stamp down on every urge my body told me was true and good. Told by father I was _unnatural_. My only value to him was breeding myself another brat with some perfect heiress, and going on to live the same life as Lucius, and my fucking grandfather before him. And then, in the blink of an eye, it was _gone_. Every certainty that my father had lived his whole life by, every belief… Wiped from the earth.” 

“Your father was a war-criminal, Malfoy. Don’t expect me to weep about his fate; or the destiny of Death Eaters like him-” Harry had looked Draco straight in the eye. 

“I won’t cry for Lucius, Harry. The day he went to Azkaban was the day my life was saved. He taught me that what you think of as your reality is only ever an illusion. He taught me that your life is yours to make of as you will. Lose these ties that bind you, Harry. Love who you wish, and care not for how the world might view you. Embrace your existence… You’re a long time dead.”

_You’re a long time dead_. Wise words from a man who’s supposed to have been in the grave these past four years. This fleeting conversation, a matter of minutes that took place on a mountainside, were the most significant words Harry knows he’s ever shared with another person in his lifetime. If Draco is out there, then Harry’s going to have to find him. There must be an irony here, Harry supposes. His life has never been his own. The ties that bind him have always belonged to Malfoy. 

Before he leaves his desk in the Magical Licencing Department Harry decided to call in a few favours. The name Harry Potter still opens a few doors. If he’s decided to call the Indian Ministry, check out a few of Malfoy’s more esoteric aliases then, really, that is nobody else's business.

////

Things were different between the pair of them after the Cairngorms. Lines had been crossed, and Harry knew he was already in far too deep. He couldn't have stepped back, though, even if he had wanted to. 

Harry, the orphan boy who’d never had kin of his own had finally found his family. Except it wasn’t with his best friend, his fiancée or the Auror Office that he’d so readily sworn his fidelity to. It was Malfoy, and the other likely bank-robbers with whom he flew. A reckoning was coming, Harry realised. He wanted to alter the course of his future but he simply couldn't see a way out of the ties that now bound him. 

Six weeks into the mission, and the evidence was there. Loose piles of Galleons and no discernable source of income. Hurried, whispered conversations in corridors, and a mysterious radio-silence from Draco on the day that the Scottish branch of Gringotts was ripped off. Ron was getting frustrated, but Harry kept demurring. _More time_ , Harry had begged. _If we’re taking this to Robards then its got to be be water-fucking-tight._ When the days flying was finished the gang would hang out at Nott’s Knockturn flat. Harry had Theo tagged for the tall, long-haired bank robber who’d put Ron and him onto the Cedar Wax, and the man had been the very last to accept his presence. Even now, Theo was still sullen; suspicious: the only one to still consider Harry a threat. 

There had been this one night, where their flying had felt more like a conflict, felt like a battle against the elements; rain falling in torrents, and the wind biting their faces as if it intended to draw blood. That was the night where Harry knew he’d passed the point of no return. 

All that day Draco and Harry had flown higher than any of the others; flying as though they were invincible, and as he had pelted through the air Harry had thought for a moment that he might just be. Both men had their _Lumoses_ lit as brightly as possible, more to blind each other than to really see where they were going. Harry had felt his whole world shrink down to the two of them. Felt like nobody else really existed in the world. 

“Harry!” Draco had shouted him over as soon as he’d appeared in the fireplace, already a little drunk if the slur of his words were anything to go by. “Get your arse over here! You nearly had me off my broom today, you bloody arsehole! Nearly broke my neck. Bloody _goldenboy_ aren't you, Scarhead?” 

Pulling Harry down next him on the settee, Draco had pressed a firewhiskey into his hand. He'd clasped hold of Harry's shoulder in a half-hug that seemed to last just a beat too long, his bony hips pressing into his, warm and suddenly disturbingly present. 

And sat next to him, Harry had felt compelled, somehow, to stare at the other man’s mouth. 

Draco’s lips were thin as they curled around the rim of his glass. Alcohol had made them redder than Harry remembered, and some ridiculous nonsense about lips being the _exit place of the soul_ flitted through his brain. _Utterly bloody stupid_ , Harry had thought, with a shake of his head. The Firewhisky must have been stronger than he was used to, and Harry hadn’t eaten that day either.

Still, Harry’s eyes darted over Malfoy's mouth once more. He knew he shouldn’t, but Harry hadn't been able help it. The man was so bloody sure of himself, sat there pontificating about some nonsense as if he owned the room. Draco was all angles, skinny and svelte, yet the man seemed to carry an aura about him, seemed to fill up every ounce of space with his energy. 

_And Malfoy was strong_ , Harry realised. Stronger than either of them had been at seventeen. Flying had made him six foot of muscle that Harry could just imagine moving under that loose cotton shirt he wore. Draco had given Harry a good workover in the sky that day, but what would it be like to get that body a little bit sweatier and dirtier- 

_Circe!_ Where the fuck had that thought come from? As a well-known warmth started to spread though Harry’s cheeks, and _shockingly_ , though other parts of his anatomy. Harry struggled to his feet, jostling Draco’s drink in the process. “Bloody hell, Potter! Watch yourself-” 

“Sorry… I just. I need a minute-” Harry waved his hand in the direction of the bathroom. 

Like everything in Nott’s flat, the bathroom was filthy; faded elegance left over from a time even before Harry had even been born. Filling the grimy sink with water, Harry splashed his face, forcing himself to take several deep breaths, and focus on the situation in hand. _Draco Malfoy _. The man was a suspect; a bloody bank-robber. This wouldn't just be a mistake. This would be devastating. Were he to act on this attraction it would be the unmaking of Harry’s life.__

____

And, Harry remembered, _they’d been here before_. The two of them, in a bathroom, that powerful spark of awareness running in a current between them. 

____

Only the last time it had ended with him slicing Draco’s chest wide open, the blood from his _Septumsempra_ wounds leaving an indelible stain on Harry’s heart. And while Draco carried those scars the two of them were bonded forever; twisted blood-brothers whose lives have been circling, revolving around each other till this very moment. It felt like inevitability when Malfoy entered the room only seconds later. Draco didn’t even bother to affect surprise, his confident strides bringing him close to Harry. Bringing him within touching distance. 

____

“What happened? You went off like a first-year’s hex back there. Everything good?” Malfoy wrapped one of his hands around Harry’s shoulder, and the long fingers that dug into his flesh were appallingly strong. “I've got to make sure that our _goldenboy_ is enjoying himself.”

____

“Its fine Malfoy. S’all good.” And even to his own ears, Harry knew he sounded weak. Knew he sounded vulnerable.

____

“ _All good_ , Potter? I think we can do better that that-”

____

And then Malfoy’s spiderlike fingers were knotted in Harry’s hair, and Draco’s lips were pressed up against Harry’s mouth. Shock-waves ran though Harry, and his whole body felt aflame. Yielding to Draco’s insistent tongue, Harry rocked back against Draco, and gave as good as he got. Their kiss was a maddening push and pull as each fought to dominate; abrasive, needy and full of want. In some dim, conscious part of his brain Harry tasted blood, but truly, he had no idea whether it was Malfoy’s or his own. His legs felt like they’d been hit with a Jelly-Legs Curse, and his breath couldn’t _quite_ fill his body. 

____

And only when Harry pulled away for a moment, just to satisfy the screaming of his lungs, did his brain start to function once more. That was the moment he realised that this was about the most foolish decision he’d ever made in his life. 

____

“Draco, what the fuck-” Harry took a step backwards, forcing himself out from under Malfoy’s vice-like grip. Shaking his head, Harry wanted to dislodge every treasonable thought running through his mind. “I’m not like you-”

____

“Like me?” queried Draco, crowding Harry once more, brushing a gentle thigh, once, twice against Harry’s traitorously hard prick. “When you say _like me_ ” Malfoy asked, letting his fingers skitter lightly over the hard shape straining Harry’s jeans, “do you mean ready to suck cock? Because I am. Right now. But, then, if you’re not _like me_ -” 

____

“I’m not-” Harry gasped. He wanted to sound certain, wanted to sound sure, but knew that he sounded anything but. His voice sounded light and reedy, like he was pleading. 

____

“You’re not,” agreed Draco and he dropped his hand, looking Harry dead in the eye. “So be it, then Harry. Just… Live your life truthfully.” Malfoy shrugged, and ran his long, lithe fingers along the creases of his shirt, in a futile attempt to straighten them. He gave Harry a sideways glance, and turned to exit the room. 

____

And if Harry had even an ounce of intelligence, then he would have let Malfoy carry on walking. Instead, he seized Draco’s shoulder, and used all of his strength to pull the other man in a rough semi-circle. 

____

“Don’t you fucking walk away… You don’t get to leave,” Harry rasped, his voice gravelly. He pushed Malfoy against the wall, his heels skidding a little on the damp floor. Harry’s hands were everywhere; gripping the other man’s sinewy, muscled torso, and snatching at the back of his neck. Their mouths were searing hot, wet and slick against one another's, and Harry could feel the heavy hardness of Draco’s cock rutting so deliberately across his own. 

____

“Tell me you want to,” demanded Draco thickly, teasing open the top button of Harry’s jeans before running his fingertips in a smooth line over Harry’s erection. “Tell me if you want me to swallow you whole -”

____

“Fuck, _yes_ ,” Harry had answered before the other man could even finish, furious at Malfoy’s imperious smirk as he’d got down on his knees. 

____

Draco pushed down Harry’s fly and took out his thick, ruddy cock. He made a deliberate show of licking the damp sticky pre-cum from the head. And Harry couldn’t last long, not when Draco had consumed his shaft, and Draco's mouth was so fervid and his tongue so beautiful. Not when anyone could have just have walked in on them, because what did it matter being caught _inflagrante_ when your entire life was lived on a knife edge?

____

Harry could feel those long slender fingertips make a v-shape on the underside of his prick, feel Draco stroke his balls and rub back and forth in a steady rhythm as he continued to suck. Malfoy’s tongue flicked carefully at his slit, pushing down his foreskin, his warm breath ghosting all over his cock. With every teasing touch Draco worked him to the edge of insanity. Harry came embarrassingly quickly, making the smallest of whimpers as the blood rushed through his brain, and the universe seemed, momentarily, to tilt on its axis. 

____

Harry had no words afterwards. No pithy remarks, and a muttered thank-you seemed both absurd and ridiculous. Malfoy only smiled as he stood, _Scourgified_ the dirt off his knees and buttoned Harry’s jeans back up. “ _If I didn’t know better, Potter…”_ he’d murmured,“ _I’d say you almost looked happy_ ”. Malfoy had left then, retuning to the party and never once looking back. 

____

And Harry, unable to trust himself, had simply apparated home. 

____

////

____

Life in the Magical Licencing Department is a strictly nine-to-five affair, and when the weekend arrives Harry never has plans. 

____

He wakes early, their room still grey in the pre-dawn. Ginny’s body curls warmly next to his, still fast asleep and he stretches, luxuriating in the silent emptiness of their flat. There’s no point trying to go back to sleep, his mind flooding with thoughts and memories as his brain springs into consciousness. Harry slips out of bed quietly, intent on not waking up his girlfriend if he could avoid it. 

____

The photograph is sat on the kitchen table, left in exactly the same position that Harry had left it the previous night. _The Pir Panjal Mountain Range_. Ginny hasn’t mentioned it again, and Harry isn’t quite man enough to bring it up either. The Malfoy family had a part in the death of her brother during the War, and this obsession of his with Draco has always been a very real betrayal of her trust. 

____

In the days since the owl arrived both he and Ginny have worked hard to pretended nothing has changed, but Harry knows it can’t last. His fiancée is a good, kind person and Harry wants to hold off hurting her for as long as he can. 

____

He taps his wand to boil the kettle, and strokes down the corner of the photograph while he waits. 

____

_And what's changed?_ Harry wonders. Why has Malfoy decided to get in contact after four years? Is he truly the taunting, bullying sociopath that Harry had imagined him at seventeen, or is there some ulterior motive? _You’re a long time dead_. Draco’s words ring through his head, and he ponders, madly, whether Malfoy’s just gotten bored. Decided to communicate with the only person who's ever challenged him in his life. 

____

Ginny arrives and they eat their breakfast in near silence. She’s dressed in her Harpies uniform, and as always is bright, vivacious and beautiful. Harry wants to pull her close, and bridge this distance that he can feel growing. Try to explain or even tell her the truth. But Harry can’t because any assurances he made just wouldn’t be true. Her back is rigid as she leaves through the Floo, and Harry doesn't get up to go after her. Instead, Harry is rushing to pull out the sheaf of parchment made at his desk at the MLD the previous day, reversing the _Reducio_ he’d used to hide it from his colleagues prying eyes. He scans the information that he’s learnt so far. 

____

There’s a hotel room in Northern Rawalpindi under the name _Damocles Rowle_ \- the Minister that established Azkaban. An international Port Key purchased six months ago in Dhanbad under the name _Hesphaestus Gore_ \- the first Minister who’d ever been a Auror. There’s an arrest record from Karachi of a Thunderbolt Broomstick being brought with fraudulent Galleons. The perpetrator used the name _Hector Fawley_. He was Minister who didn’t take the threat of Grindelwald seriously. 

____

Its a message. 

____

Draco is alive, and using a pattern of aliases that he knows Harry will recognise. Right at this moment Draco is flying, or drinking or fucking. Or maybe just laughing at Harry’s expense. Maybe its just another of the Draco's games, and he’ll disappear forever the moment Harry arrives to find him. But he's alive, and he's telling Harry to find him. 

____

////

____

Ginny returns from practice, exhausted and sore. Harry knows she’s struggled with her form this season, and that the new, hungry Seeker the Harpies have taken on is running her ragged. Harry asks if she wants to practice, get out their brooms and play one-on-one, like they always did at school, but she just shakes her head sadly. 

____

“No. I’ve brought Muggle takeaway for dinner. I can’t be bothered to cook tonight.”

____

They eat in a near silence. The pizza has gone cold but neither of them bother to spell it warm again. After only a couple of slices Ginny uses an _Evanesco_ to vanish the rest, and they move into their sitting room, pretending to read. 

____

“Gin-” Harry begins. He doesn’t know the words to use next. Harry’s always hoped he was a good man, and he hates the idea he’s letting Ginny down. _Circe_ , he’s always wanted this so badly. Wanted that simple love, that easy love that he always saw in photos of his parents. 

____

“Gin. That owl… That envelope that came the other day-”

____

“Don’t. _Please_. Just don’t you say his name.” Ginny looks resigned, and her eyes have a glint to them which reminds Harry more of pity more than anything else. She leans over and gives him a small, chaste kiss on the cheek. “I get it, Harry… I understand. I’ve been waiting to have this conversation my whole life. Bloody Malfoy. Even when we were kids, I always knew I’d never truly be yours… He was always there, that bloody _spectre_ waiting on the sidelines-”

____

“Gin, I’m sorry. I want you to be happy… If I thought I could-”

____

“You can’t. You never could, Harry. He’s summonsed you. And all its taken is one bloody photograph, and you’re willing to throw _everything_ away to follow him. To be with him. The sad thing is, Harry… The way you love Malfoy? That's how much I love you. So I understand. I get why you do have to do this.”

____

“I never wanted to hurt you, Gin. I wish things could have been different.”

____

“Oh Harry.” There are tears in Ginny’s eyes now, and she wipes them away with the back of her hand, trying her very hardest to look brave. 

____

Harry would like to comfort her, banish the heartbreak from her face, but he knows he doesn’t have the right. Not now. Not when he’s leaving her to follow his destiny. “ _Draco Malfoy_. You never did make things easy on yourself, Harry. I’m going to go now, love. Stay with George and Angelina for a bit… I’ll come back in a few days, get my stuff, and it’ll be easier for both of us if you’re not here when I come back.”

____

And with those words, Ginny disapparated. Harry held up a hand to the shimmer of magic that marked where she’d sat, but even that soon disappeared into nothingness. 

____

////

____

__

> ____
> 
> Hermione;
> 
> ____
> 
> I know what you’re thinking. Bloody Harry never did manage to master using a ruddy quill and ink. In my defence, I’ve just put away half a bottle of Ogden’s Finest, and I’m currently sleeping in some dive in Central Europe. Don’t try to track the owl; I’ve charmed it not to return here. 
> 
> ____
> 
> You know, of course, that I’ve gone. 
> 
> ____
> 
> Word will have got back to you the minute I didn’t sit at my desk at the MBL last Monday. I know you gave me that job to protect me; to keep me grounded. Keep me safe. Avoid a lifetime of _Prophet_ headlines while I lurched from one disaster to another. You’ve been a better friend than I ever deserved. Please tell Ron that I miss his friendship more than I can ever express in words. He didn’t deserve to lose his place in the Auror Office, not because of my poor choices. I only hope he’s found solace in your children. I can’t imagine a better father than him. 
> 
> ____
> 
> Sometimes I still think the Sorting Hat made a mistake with me. Gryffindor courage, bravery and determination? They were all your traits, Hermione, not mine. You’ve shown all of these with me over the past four years, and I’ve no doubt you’ll make the finest- and youngest- Minister for Magic that there's ever been. 
> 
> ____
> 
> I’ve decided to try to be truly brave for the first time in my life. Ginny will have told you that I’ve left her, and gone to find Draco. I should have reported the photograph the minute I received it, turned it over to the Aurors to chase him down. I know this is the end. I know that I’ve effectively aided and abetted a wanted criminal. But somehow, I can’t ever seem to let him go
> 
> ____
> 
> And I know I should say I'll stay in touch, find a way to keep in contact. That we’ll talk when I get home. But I think we both know I'm probably never coming back. 
> 
> ____
> 
> I still cannot imagine a better friend than you have always been, 
> 
> ____
> 
> Harry.
> 
> ____

__  
__

////

____

The final leg of Harry’s journey is an international Port Key that takes him straight to the Wizarding District of Agra, North India. The city is populous and ferociously busy, and not one person gives Harry even a second look. 

____

He’s covered his scar with a glamour and shoved the majority of his ridiculous hair under a hat. He spends the day waiting for the public Floo for the northern city of Amiritsar. The Indian Ministry had records of a _Ulick Gamp_ \- the first person ever to call himself the Minister for Magic – living and working there. Harry has their address folded tightly in the back pocket of his jeans, and for the third time that day he checks to see that its still there. He leafs through racks of postcards sadly, knowing there’s nobody left at home for him to send one to. 

____

And Harry feels impatient, agitated: trapped in a limbo between his real life, and the person he knows is waiting just beyond the Floo point. 

____

The life he’s given up was far too easy to shed, and he remembers Draco’s words as they sat inside that cave in the Cairngorm Mountains: _“Life is yours to make of as you will. Lose these ties that bind you, Harry. Love who you wish, and care not for how the world might view you.”_ And really, isn’t that just what he’s done? Freely walked away from his fiancée, his friends, his job and his reputation, pushed the edge of existence by Draco bloody Malfoy? 

____

And when he arrives, Draco’s apartment is an absolute _wreck_ of a place, a concrete shack that seems to be held up with only corrugated steel and sheer bloody luck. There’s no magical signature on the building that Harry is aware of, nor any wards holding him back from entry. This isn’t the cosseted existence that Draco was born and bred for but then, Harry supposes, it must be a vast improvement to a cell in Azkaban. 

____

In the four years since he last saw Draco, Harry has imagined this moment time and time again. Imagined laying into him, punching him, and drawing Draco's blood. Imagined drawing his wand and hexing him, or ruining his smug face with a sly _Diffindo_. But now that he’s here, Harry knows he's not going to do any of these things. All he does is ring the bell and wait. 

____

“Merlin, Potter.” Draco says as he opens the door wide, his smile big and amused. “I thought you were supposed to be a wizard. You’ll make yourself ruddy poorly if you don’t use a sun-repelling charm. And that hat is _vile_. Worse than the birds-nest you call your hair. Are you going to come in?”

____

////

____

Harry doesn't know what to do with himself as he’s handed a Butterbeer that he polishes off in three gulps. Draco hasn’t changed on iota in the four years apart, and as Harry sits there in his surprisingly tidy lounge, he’s struck by the absurdity of the notion that he ever thought the man was dead. Malfoy is still tall, lithe and powerfully muscular. His face is still a mass of angles and his hair has bleached white under the sun. Draco smells like fresh air and freedom. He seems quite content to sit quite still, and never utters one word. 

____

“So. You’re alive. You shouldn’t have been able to survive Dufourspitze. Nobody could have flown in that storm” Harry finally manages, tearing at the label of his beer. He’s surprised at the casual way Draco holds himself, at his open relaxed body. Harry doesn’t get a reply, and knows then that he’s probably never going to. Malfoy stands, and hands over another beer. 

____

“That last raid, Potter. Things went downhill so fast… I’ll never know why Theo used that Unforgivable. Violence was never our thing. And it was never about the money. We... I only ever wanted to fly-”

____

“And the only way to do that was robbing banks? Circe, Malfoy. You don’t change. I should have given the photograph to Hermione. Should have come in here with twelve bloody Aurors. Had you arrested-” 

____

“ _And yet here you are_ Harry. Sat on my settee, talking about the old times. Those aliases. The postcard…Talk about bloody _obvious_. I’m surprised it took you as long as it did, Potter. You must be losing your touch.” Draco arches his eyebrows, looks at Harry with an incredulous glare. “You certainly could have arrested me. But instead, you’ve left your friends, your fiancée, your nine-to-five life and _ran away_ to me. I have to say, Harry. You know how to get a man’s attention.”

____

////

____

Draco’s bedroom is clean and sparse, the furnishings simple. Harry pushes the door shut behind him and kisses Draco, their teeth clattering against each other. It's everything he’s never allowed himself to need, and it feels like he’s _flying_.

____

Harry crowds up against Draco, and every touch is searing hot, and rough. Neither man willing to give the other space to breathe or back down. Harry’s blood is roaring and he knows he's soaring, high on adrenaline and pure, wanton need. “You bloody arse” Harry hisses, as Draco twists those long fingers through his hair and wrenches him close, the pain almost pleasurable in its intensity. In one swift motion Harry vanished their clothes, leaning over to bite at Draco’s clavicle, and lick a hot stripe over his jaw. 

____

“Always such a fucking show-off,” Draco mouths, as Harry pushes him onto the bed, flipping him over onto his hands and knees in one fluid motion. Harry slaps Draco’s arse hard enough to leave a mark and begins to lick downwards, tiny flicks of his tongue that caught the taste of Malfoy’s musky male skin, and set his heart thudding and racing. 

____

“Gods, Potter. Thats-” But Harry doesn't stop. there is nothing on the Earth that could hold him back now. He forces a knee between Draco’s legs, burying his face between the other man’s arse cheeks. Underneath Harry's lips Draco can’t seem to decide how to react; his body is writhing, shuddering, and he's pushing his hole up against Harry’s face. 

____

“I’m not letting you go again Malfoy,” Harry said, pulling his mouth away and wandlessly lubing his fingers.”I’m going to have to fuck you soon.” He pushes two fingers into Draco, opening him wide with scissoring fingers that he knew were more punishing that pleasurable, his every movement urgent with burning want. Every nerve ending felt like it was on fire, and Harry’s magic was rolling off him in rapid, uneven bursts. This is what being alive felts like, and Harry knew he couldn't ever get enough. 

____

Malfoy is moaning, fucking his fingers and Harry can tell that he’s loving every second. He's loving it when Harry kisses him, and it's more of a bite than a caress. Draco loves the fight and the pressure of Harry’s grip holding him still. This is the way the two of them were made to exist; neither of them complete without the other. 

____

Four years has been too much, too long for Harry, and now he’s got Draco back he want to own him, wants to consume him. He leans down, bites hard on Draco’s neck. Harry draws blood but that makes it more even satisfying. Harry places the head of his cock against Draco’s arsehole, and presses forward with all he has. 

____

Harry isn’t in the mood to be gentle and he pushes in the rest of the way before Draco can even gasp. They're both desperate, needy and so ready for this. Their coupling is abrasive; bruising, but that's what they both deserve. Their entire relationship has always been as much about the pain as it has the pleasure.

____

Harry takes Malfoy _apart_. With each savage thrust, Harry peel away the years that have passed. He peels away the boundaries that have existed forever between them. Saviour, Death Eater. Auror, Bank Robber. None of these titles matter any more, and both men are stripped utterly bare. Exhausted, thighs trembling and breath shaking his lungs, Harry comes, flashing lights at the side of his vision and Draco’s name a gasp on his tongue. 

____

Harry is floating, and for the first time in four years, truly free.

____

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> The last word, of course, goes to Draco (Bodhi) "vaya con dios" (go with God).
> 
> I hope you have a brilliant day. xxxxx
> 
> ***
> 
> This work is part of "Lights, Camera, Drarry" (LCDrarry), a film-, TV- and theatre-inspired Drarry fest.  
>  Creations are posted anonymously during the posting period. The creators will be revealed on [tumblr](http://lcdrarry.tumblr.com) and [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/LCDrarry2019/works) on 15 June.


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